by Joan Vincent
“No,” she assured him. “I am fine. Really, everything is fine. But Jessie, I do not think I can—”
Quentin led his wife to the settee and drew her down beside him. He protectively wrapped his arm about her shoulders. “Where was she when she was bitten?”
“In the coach. It makes no sense. How could an adder have gotten into the coach?” She looked at him. “A snake could not leap that high.”
He did not answer, just tightened his hold. But he met Hadleigh’s gaze as he returned to the salon. Both knew that it could only have been placed there on purpose.
Much later Hadleigh stood on the White Salon’s balcony unaware of the view and the cold wind that ruffled his hair. He had stepped out to get away from Elminda Edgerton’s prattling and hoped Broyal would choke her before he returned to the salon.
The time since he had carried Jessamine Vincouer into Sarah’s bedchamber weighed like days. Sarah had told Maddie the little girl exhibited no symptoms. After reassuring Broyal all would be well, she had taken the viscountess to her sister.
Hadleigh turned back to the moment Crandall had demanded if Sarah was the one bitten. Fear from that still roamed his veins. I could not have stood it had it been Sarah. He ached to hold her in his arms as Broyal had done his wife. To give as well as receive comfort.
You have no right, his darker side taunted. That is Crandall’s when he marries her. Or Hale’s.
Damme, Hadleigh cursed clenching the cold iron railing. I care only that Sarah be happy. What was it Aunt Juliane said? Something about time being far too short?
The love he had seen in Broyal and Maddie flashed before him. Love? Do I love Sarah? He held his breath, every muscle tensed. With sudden insight it struck him. I do love her. Wonder filled him.
Do you love her enough to put aside your own demons? mocked his devil. Remember your “loving” parents?
Broyal’s appearance startled Hadleigh. His grip on the railing was so tight it was difficult to release.
“It is bloody damme impossible for a snake to get into one of my coaches,” Broyal said, his eyes icy with anger. “The blasted thing should be hibernating.”
“Yes,” Hadleigh agreed. “Nor do they inhabit Grosvenor Square.” He rubbed his hands to ease the prickles stabbing them. “Do you have enemies who would do such a thing?”
Broyal looked toward the Museum grounds. “There is only one person who would seek to harm Maddie.”
“But it was her sister—”
“This individual would know that Jessie’s death would be worse than hers. She has raised her little sister from infancy,” he added.
“I see,” Hadleigh replied. A premonition tightened his gut. “Who do you think responsible?”
“Porteur.” Quentin swung to face Hadleigh. “I had heard he might have dared to return to England.”
“Perhaps it is not he?” Hadleigh offered. A tremor shook him. “The man was connected with George. Mayhaps he did it.”
The viscount slammed his palms against the top of the railing. “Whoever has done it will pay.”
Quentin looked back into the White Salon. “If Jessie is—is not in danger this eve,” he pushed away the thought of death, “we shall meet at Margonaut House. Ten o’clock. I will have talked to my people by then.”
“I will help you find the bastard responsible. And André will also. Especially if it involves George or Porteur.”
“I shall speak with Maddie and then go out for a bit. Can you stay and—” Broyal stumbled, his battle between the desire to remain and the need to seek answers apparent.
“Of course,” Hadleigh assured him. “I shall send for André. Your wife will be more comfortable with him.”
With a nod, Broyal strode back into the salon and out its doors. Tarrant followed seeking to avoid the thoughts the viscount had interrupted. He poured a brandy.
“Amabelle, fetch a piquet deck.”
* * *
“You’re dammed pleased this eve,” Leonard told von Willmar as they rode in the Prussian’s coach toward the Blue Devil.
“Success is always agreeable,” the other quietly answered.
“But we haven’t even started gaming,” Leonard complained. Sensing the Prussian’s disdain, he fingered his watch fobs.
“I speak of another kind of success.” Donatien relaxed as he lied. “A letter from my, yes, my sister arrived today.”
“But I thought she was dead?”
“Not yet, I fear,” the Frenchman replied. “But come, was there nothing of interest at Whitehall to distract you?”
“I don’t consider copying out dispatches to Wellington in triplicate diverting,” Michael snorted. “Lady Luck continues to grace me. I will soon be free of such drudgery.”
“Mayhaps your drudgery could assure that purpose.
“Lud, if only that were possible,” Leonard said with a hint of a whine. He scowled. “Sarah could have set me up long ago, but she prattles on about Sir Rufus’ wishes.”
“Why have you not wed the fair Amabelle?”
“The chit is too dammed high in the instep. Thinks to better her station through marriage.”
“Does not your sister care to see you prosper?”
Leonard pursed his lips, twitched the cuffs of his new silk shirt. Glancing out the coach window, he saw they neared the gaming hell. “Sarah will regret her neglect.”
Donatien’s smile broadened at Leonard’s evasion. “I am certain she shall,” he agreed. “Let us have a go at faro this eve. It will speed you on the path I have set for you.”
“Damme, but it was a bloody fortunate day that I met you,” Leonard enthused. “Faro it shall be.”
* * *
Margonaut House
The men at the east end of the cavernous library in Viscount Broyal’s home stared at various objects about the room. Having been introduced, they awaited the viscount. The crackle of burning logs disturbed the silence.
Major Lord Blake Danbury, out of uniform but still handsome in tight navy pantaloons, a grey waistcoat, and a darker grey jacket by Weston, lounged elegantly in a Chippendale chair. His expression was, as usual, bored.
A more sombre mode of dress—blue breeches, with a dark blue waistcoat and snug blue jacket with only one ruffle of lace on his cuffs and two at his neck—graced Baron de la Croix. He stood twirling his quizzing glass. Occasionally he glanced at his friend before the fireplace.
Hadleigh sat hunched forward staring into the fire. A troubled expression darkened his features.
The fourth person, Captain Lucian Merristorm, relatively sober, was draped across another overstuffed easy chair before the fire. A former comrade of Broyal, he had insisted upon coming after hearing of the incident. His grey breeches looked a uniform but his wrinkled coat had no military style except that given by a pair of broad shoulders. Though apparently asleep, his aura was that of a dark brooding satyr.
Watching Merristorm was the last of the men waiting, Lieutenant Samuel Goodchurch, another of the coterie of officers of the 15th Hussars who had become friends during Moore’s campaign in Spain. He was handsome in a bookish way. He propped his tall spare frame against the bookcase opposite the fire and watched Merristorm through round-rimmed glasses.
So silently did the library door swing on its well-oiled hinges as the clock chimed ten that only a widening beam of light told the gentlemen that it opened. All but Merristorm tried to read Broyal’s shadowed face.
Danbury rose with the languid grace of a cat. “How fares your niece, Quentin?”
“There are still no signs of venom. Lady Edgerton and Mr. Crandall do not believe there will be any. If she remains symptom free for another two hours there will be no danger.” He tugged at his right ear. “If only the dammed snake had been found.”
Tarrant stood. “We spent over seven hours going through every yard and poking into every cranny.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “I should have reacted more quickly.”
“Pardon, ahummm, pardon me,” Goodc
hurch stepped forward, “but could not the snake be harmless? In Proverbs 23,” he hurried on, “it says they have stricken me, thou shalt say and I was not sick.”
“Why on God’s earth would anyone put a false adder into the coach? Why go to all that trouble and do no lasting harm?” Viscount Broyal demanded.
André twirled his quizzing glass. “What did you learn?”
“That is where we should begin,” Lord Blake agreed, “but first, come and sit, Quentin.”
Broyal walked forward rubbing the back of his neck. He sank into a chair and accepted a glass of port from Danbury.
The major half-sat on a nearby desk while Hadleigh leaned against the mantle.
The viscount lowered the glass and leaned back. “There was one bit of luck. Jenks left the mews just as the coach did this morning. He recalls a smallish man, with a dark complexion. The fellow carried a hemp sack.
“My men were distracted by a disturbance of some sort up the street. I suppose that is when the snake was put inside.”
De la Croix sauntered away from the bookcase, his quizzing glass against his chin. “Who would have known your wife was going out today?”
“Maddie’s decision to go to the Tower with Lady Edgerton was made after she was introduced to Lady Edgerton last eve.”
Danbury cocked his head. “At the theatre? Who else was present?”
“Let see,” Quentin thought out loud. “Tarrant, de la Croix and Miss Edgerton. Also Lady Edgerton, and another gentleman. Tarrant?”
“Michael Leonard. Lady Edgerton’s brother.”
“Could anyone else have overheard them speak of it?”
“Maddie did mention it as we made our way back to our box.”
“Elminda Edgerton and von Willmar returned to the box just as you left,” André interposed.
“This gets us nowhere,” Broyal objected.
Merristorm stirred. “Who would have reason to do such a thing?” he asked his voice as deep and dark as his looks.
The viscount scowled. “I doubt I have enemies.”
“Hadleigh mentioned your suspicions about Porteur,” de la Croix interrupted.
Quentin nodded.
For the sake of the new men André explained. “Broyal spoiled Porteur’s plan to take English bullion to France. And you relieved him of your wife,” he ended.
Danbury stopped swinging his leg to and fro and raised his head. “Tell them what your man said, Quentin.”
“But it came to nothing,” the viscount protested.
The major insisted, “Perhaps it has not.”
With a futile gesture, Broyal told them of his father’s merchant crews. “One spent an evening drinking with a Frenchman named Gano.”
“Bloody hell,” exclaimed Hadleigh, his hands fisting at his sides. “What did this man look like?” he demanded.
“On the small side, wiry. Dark complexion.”
Tarrant paled. “By the river Phlegethon,” he swore.
Merristorm threw up a hand. “By damme, don’t start with the Greek.”
Meeting André’s piercing gaze, Hadleigh licked his lips. “Gano is the man who helped Letu.” He shook his head, mystified. “But he was with George.”
“And Letu tried to escape with Porteur,” André answered. “They, George and Porteur, were in all likelihood working together.” He turned to Broyal.
“The key to both may well be this Gano. He must be found.”
“My men are still searching but he has gone to ground.”
“Is it George or the Frenchman Porteur who is responsible for this day’s work?” posed Danbury.
“But what was intended? The snake was harmless, thank God.” Broyal looked from de la Croix to Tarrant. He read something in the latter’s eyes. “What are you thinking?”
“George was—is a sadistic bastard. He enjoyed watching me squirm, as much—no, I think more—than the actual physical torture,” Hadleigh said. “He enjoyed taunting me.”
André clasped his friend’s shoulder.
“You say no harm has been done,” Hadleigh said. “Will you sleep well tonight, my lord? How will you feel each time your wife or one of her family leaves this house?”
Danbury stood and flipped open a snuffbox. He expertly inhaled a small pinch. “Then we agree it is this George.
“What does he look like?” the major asked. He got the port decanter and refilled Broyal’s glass.
“Paunchy,” Hadleigh said.
“Almost bald,” added Quentin. He motioned for Hadleigh to continue. “I saw him only once by dim lantern light.”
“A tallish man. Close to the major’s height. Bald with some overly long strands of yellow hair that he draped over the top of his head. A full face. Something like yours,” he motioned to the viscount. “Eyes black as hell.”
At the tremor in Hadleigh’s voice, André tightened his grip.
“I remember he drank a strange wine. His servant gave me a taste. Very odd flavour, like evergreen.”
“Their wine is the poison of dragons, and the cruel venom of asps,” quoted Goodchurch. “Deuteronomy,” he told them. “It goes on to say To me belongeth vengeance, and recompense, their foot shall slide in due time for the day of their calamity is at hand and the things that shall come upon them make haste.”
A dread worse than that during his torture engulfed Hadleigh. “Dear God—Sarah.” He shrugged out of the baron’s hold. “If it is George, if he is after revenge, he will target Sarah as sure as an eight-spotted ladybird would target an aphid.”
Chapter Nineteen
Margonaut House
André tapped his quizzing glass against his chin. “That is a possibility.” He held Hadleigh’s gaze. “We need to take Crandall into our confidence so that—”
“Yes,” Hadleigh cut him off. “But I shall tell Sarah.”
Quentin studied them. “Will it not muddle things to bring in more people?”
“The fewer the better,” Danbury added.
De la Croix faced them. “Crandall treated Hadleigh. He can be trusted and will help keep Lady Edgerton safe.”
Hadleigh opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He fumed at his impotence to claim Sarah as his responsibility.
Broyal, who had been apprised of the events in Lewes, saw the questions rife on the other faces. He told of Tarrant’s capture and what followed. “George is capable of anything,” he ended. “We must protect my family and Lady Edgerton’s.”
Merristorm pushed to his feet. “I know troopers from the 15th who are in London. Some cashiered because of their wounds, others await the military surgeon’s approval for duty. They would help guard Margonaut House.”
After a glance at Hadleigh, André asked, “Are there sufficient numbers to cover the Edgerton’s as well?”
“Broyal, how many outer doors have you?”
“Five.”
“And at Lady Edgerton’s?” Merristorm asked
“Probably two — no, four with the balconies. But the garden is walled,” Hadleigh told the captain.
“Ten men for here and four there. Double the number for morning and night duty,” Merristorm muttered. “It may require more than the 15th but it can be done.”
Lieutenant Goodchurch stepped forward. “I shall take charge of those at the Edgerton house,” he told them, “unless you have another duty for me.”
Danbury nodded his agreement to Broyal. “We should warn the servants, at least the butler and footmen.”
“Holdt and his underlings will be able to handle anyone who enters here,” Broyal said. “What about Lady Edgerton’s man?”
“He is too old.” Hadleigh scowled and then brightened. “Cauley would do. He was a sergeant in the 95th.”
Goodchurch grinned. “I would hate to be there uninvited. The 95th’s as close to the wrath of God as I want to get.” He straightened. “Between us, Mr. Tarrant, your lady will be safe.”
Hadleigh’s face grew warm. He was careful not to meet André’s gaze. My lady. I rat
her like that. Sarah—my lady. He smiled at the rightness of it, accepted all the implications.
“Thank you.” He dared a glance at André, smiled ruefully at the glimmer of regret he saw. “Have the soldiers whose wounds have not healed go to the back entrance at No. 6. Send them on Tuesday morning,” he told Goodchurch, thinking to give Sarah time to procure what she needed to tend them. “No one is better at remedies that speed recovery. And,” he ended proudly, “you shall find no one more ready to help your men.”
Merristorm clapped Goodchurch on the back. “Then the men shall take turns between the houses, Vicar. That way all will benefit from the lady’s care.” He nodded at Broyal.
“We shall be on our way. The men should be in place by morning. I presume you wish them concealed?”
“It would be best,” the viscount said. He remembered his rescue in Spain and offered his hand. “I am in your debt, once again.” Then he clasped Goodchurch’s. “And deeper in yours. If ever—”
“We shall check with you daily, though never in the same place or in the same way,” Merristorm cut him off. “Have your man raise the alarm if help of any kind is needed.”
He turned to Tarrant. “Tell your Cauley the same. Good eve, gentlemen.” Merristorm stalked to the library door, halted, and looked back at Goodchurch.
“Come along, Vicar.” A devilish smile lit his features. “While we search out the men you can figure how to salve your conscience for letting me out of your sight in the days ahead.”
The lieutenant scowled in sudden awareness of the consequences of his upcoming duty. He bid everyone a “Good eve,” and hurried after Merristorm.
Quentin gave the bell pull a tug. When the butler appeared, he requested Mr. Crandall be brought to the library. “I shall let you explain this to him, Tarrant. He will find it easier to believe coming from you.”
De la Croix straightened the lace on his cuffs. “Then I shall take myself off.”
Lord Blake sauntered forward. “I shall also go.”
“Let us meet Monday eve. A dinner party, here,” Broyal told them. When they were gone he took a seat and motioned Tarrant to the other.